Books: The Ink Stain, v2
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Rene Bazin >> The Ink Stain, v2
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"'Six louis? very dear.'
"'That's my price for this kind of work, my lord; I am very
busy just now, my lord.'
"'Well, let it be this once. I don't often have a picture framed;
to tell the truth, I don't care for pictures.'
"Dufilleul admires and looks at himself in the vile portrait
which he holds outstretched in his right hand, while his left hand
feels in his purse. Monsieur Plumet looks very stiff, very unhappy,
and very nervous. He evidently wants to get his customer off the
premises.
"The rustling of skirts is heard on the staircase. Plumet turns
pale, and glancing at the half-opened door, through which the
terrier is pushing its nose, steps forward to close it. It is too
late.
"Some one has noiselessly opened it, and on the threshold stands
Mademoiselle Jeanne in walking-dress, looking, with bright eyes and
her most charming smile, at Plumet, who steps back in a fright, and
Dufilleul, who has not yet seen her.
"'Well, sir, and so I've caught you!'
"Dufilleul starts, and involuntarily clutches the portrait to his
waistcoat.
"'Mademoiselle-- No, really, you have come--?'
"'To see Madame Plumet. What wrong is there in that?'
"'None whatever--of course not.'
"'Not the least in the world, eh? Ha, ha! What a trifle flurries
you. Come now, collect yourself. There is nothing to be frightened
at. As I was coming upstairs, your dog put his muzzle out; I
guessed he was not alone, so I left my maid with Madame Plumet, and
came in at the right-hand door instead of the left. Do you think it
improper?'
"'Oh, no, Mademoiselle.'
"'However, I am inquisitive, and I should like to see what you are
hiding there.'
"'It's a portrait.'
"'Hand it to me.'
"'With pleasure; unfortunately it's only a portrait of myself.'
"'Why unfortunately? On the contrary, it flatters you--the nose is
not so long as the original; what do you say, Monsieur Plumet?'
"'Do you think it good?'
"'Very.'
"'How do you like the frame?'
"'It's very pretty.'
"'Then I make you a present of it, Mademoiselle.'
"'Why! wasn't it intended for me?'
"'I mean--well! to tell the truth, it wasn't; it's a wedding
present, a souvenir--there's nothing extraordinary in that, is
there?'
"'Nothing whatever. You can tell me whom it's for, I suppose?'
"'Don't you think that you are pushing your curiosity too far?'
"'Well, really!'
"'Yes, I mean it.'
"'Since you make such a secret of it, I shall ask Monsieur Plumet to
tell me. Monsieur Plumet, for whom is this portrait?'
"Plumet, pale as death, fumbled at his workman's cap, like a naughty
child.
"'Why, you see, Mademoiselle--I am only a poor framemaker.'
"'Very well! I shall go to Madame Plumet, who is sure to know, and
will not mind telling me.'
"Madame Plumet, who must have been listening at the door, came in at
that moment, trembling like a leaf, and prepared to dare all.
"I beg you won't, Mademoiselle,' broke in Dufilleul; 'there is no
secret. I only wanted to tease you. The portrait is for a friend
of mine who lives at Fontainebleau.'
"'His name?'
"'Gonin--he's a solicitor.'
"'It was time you told me. How wretched you both looked. Another
time tell me straight out, and frankly, anything you have no reason
to conceal. Promise you won't act like this again.'
"'I promise.'
"'Then, let us make peace.'
"She held out her hand to him. Before he could grasp it, Madame
Plumet broke in:
"'Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I can not have you deceived like this in
my house. Mademoiselle, it is not true!'
"'What is not true, Madame?'
"'That this portrait is for Monsieur Gonin, or anybody else at
Fontainebleau.'
"Mademoiselle Charnot drew back in surprise.
"'For whom, then?'
"'An actress.'
"'Take care what you are saying, Madame.'
"'For Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes.'
"'Lies!' cried Dufilleul. 'Prove it, Madame; prove your story,
please!'
"'Look at the back,' answered Madame Plumet, quietly.
"Mademoiselle Jeanne, who had not put down the miniature, turned it
over, read what was on the back, grew deathly pale, and handed it to
her lover.
"'What does it say?' said Dufilleul, stooping over it.
"It said: 'From Monsieur le Baron D----- to Mademoiselle T-----,
Boulevard Haussmann. To be delivered on Thursday.'
"'You can see at once, Mademoiselle, that this is not my writing.
It's an abominable conspiracy. Monsieur Plumet, I call upon you to
give your wife the lie. She has written what is false; confess it!'
"The frame-maker hid his face in his hands and made no reply.
"'What, Plumet, have you nothing to say for me?'
"Mademoiselle Charnot was leaving the room.
"'Where are you going, Mademoiselle? Stay, you will soon see that
they lie!'
"She was already half-way across the landing when Dufilleul caught
her and seized her by the hand.
"'Stay, Jeanne, stay!'
"'Let me go, sir!'
"'No, hear me first; this is some horrible mistake. I swear'
"At this moment a high-pitched voice was heard on the staircase.
"'Well, George, how much longer are you going to keep me?'
"Dufilleul suddenly lost countenance and dropped Mademoiselle
Charnot's hand.
"The young girl bent over the banisters, and saw, at the bottom of
the staircase, exactly underneath her, a woman looking up, with head
thrown back and mouth still half-opened. Their eyes met. Jeanne at
once turned away her gaze.
"Then, turning to Madame Plumet, who leaned motionless against the
wall:
"'Come, Madame,' she said, 'we must go and choose a hat.' And she
closed the dressmaker's door behind her.
"This, my friend, is the true account of what happened in the Rue
Hautefeuille. I learned the details from Madame Plumet in person,
who could not contain herself for joy as she described the success
of her conspiracy, and how her little hand had guided old Dame
Fortune's. For, as you will doubtless have guessed, the meeting
between Jeanne and her lover, so dreaded by the framemaker, had been
arranged by Madame Plumet unknown to all, and the damning
inscription was also in her handwriting.
"I need not add that Mademoiselle Charnot, upset by the scene, had a
momentary attack of faintness. However, she soon regained her usual
firm and dignified demeanor, which seems to show that she is a woman
of energy.
"But the interest of the story does not cease here. I think the
betrothal is definitely at an end. A betrothal is always a
difficult thing to renew, and after the publicity which attended the
rupture of this one, I do not see how they can make it up again.
One thing I feel sure of is, that Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot will
never change her name to Madame Dufilleul.
"Do not, however, exaggerate your own chances. They will be less
than you think for some time yet. I do not believe that a young
girl who has thus been wounded and deceived can forget all at once.
There is even the possibility of her never forgetting--of living
with her sorrow, preferring certain peace of mind, and the simple
joys of filial devotion, to all those dreams of married life by
which so many simple-hearted girls have been cruelly taken in.
"In any case do not think of returning yet, for I know you are
capable of any imprudence. Stay where you are, examine your
documents, and wait.
"My mother and I are passing through a bitter trial. She is ill, I
may say seriously ill. I would sooner bear the illness than my
present anxiety.
"Your friend,
"SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.
"P. S.--Just as I was about to fasten up this letter, I got a note
from Madame Plumet to tell me that Monsieur and Mademoiselle Charnot
have left Paris. She does not know where they have gone."
I became completely absorbed over this letter. Some passages I read a
second time; and the state of agitation into which it threw me did not at
once pass away. I remained for an indefinite time without a notion of
what was going on around me, entirely wrapped up in the past or the
future.
The Italian attendant brought me back to the present with a jerk of his
elbow. He was replacing the last register in the huge drawers of the
table. He and I were alone. My colleagues had left, and our first
sitting had come to an end without my assistance, though before my eyes.
They could not have gone far, so, somewhat ashamed of my want of
attention, I put on my hat, and went to find them and apologize. The
little attendant caught me by the sleeve, and gave a knowing smile at the
letter which I was slipping into my pocketbook.
"E d'una donna?" he asked.
"What's that to you?"
"I am sure of it; a letter from a man would never take so long to read;
and, 'per Bacco', you were a time about it! 'Oh, le donne, illustre
signore, le downe!'"
"That's enough, thank you."
I made for the door, but he threw himself nimbly in my way, grimacing,
raising his eyebrows, one finger on his ribs. "Listen, my lord, I can
see you are a true scholar, a man whom fame alone can tempt. I could get
your lordship such beautiful manuscripts--Italian, Latin, German
manuscripts that never have been edited, my noble lord!"
"Stolen, too!" I replied, and pushed past him.
I went out, and in the neighboring square, amicably seated at the same
table, under the awning of a cafe, I found my French colleagues and the
Italian judge. At a table a little apart the clerk was sucking something
through a straw. And they all laughed as they saw me making my way
toward them through the still scorching glare of the sun.
MILAN, June 25th.
Our mission was concluded to-day. Zampini is a mere rogue. Brought face
to face with facts he could not escape from, he confessed that he had
intended to "have a lark" with the French heirs by claiming to be the
rightful heir himself, though he lacked two degrees of relationship to
establish his claim.
We explained to him that this little "lark" was a fraudulent act which
exposed him at least to the consequence of having to pay the costs of the
action. He accepted our opinion in the politest manner possible. I
believe he is hopelessly insolvent. He will pay the usher in macaroni,
and the barrister in jests.
My colleagues, the record man and the translator, leave Milan to-morrow.
I shall go with them.
CHAPTER XIV
A SURPRISING ENCOUNTER
MILAN, June 26th.
I have just had another letter from Sylvestre. My poor friend is very
miserable; his mother is dead--a saint if ever there was one. I was very
deeply touched by the news, although I knew this lovable woman very
slightly--too slightly, indeed, not having been a son, or related in any
way to her, but merely a passing stranger who found his way within the
horizon of her heart, that narrow limit within which she spread abroad
the treasures of her tenderness and wisdom. How terribly her son must
feel her loss!
He described in his letter her last moments, and the calmness with which
she met death, and added:
"One thing, which perhaps you will not understand, is the remorse
which is mingled with my sorrow. I lived with her forty years, and
have some right to be called 'a good son.' But, when I compare the
proofs of affection I gave her with those she gave me, the
sacrifices I made for her with those she made for me; when I think
of the egoism which found its way into our common life, on which I
founded my claims to merit, of the wealth of tenderness and sympathy
with which she repaid a few walks on my arm, a few kind words, and
of her really great forbearance in dwelling beneath the same roof
with me--I feel that I was ungrateful, and not worthy of the
happiness I enjoyed.
"I am tortured by the thought that it is impossible for me to repair
all my neglect, to pay a debt the greatness of which I now recognize
for the first time. She is gone. All is over. My prayers alone
can reach her, can tell her that I loved her, that I worshipped her,
that I might have been capable of doing all that I have left undone
for her.
"Oh, my friend, what pleasant duties have I lost! I mean, at least,
to fulfil her last wishes, and it is on account of one of them that
I am writing to you.
"You know that my mother was never quite pleased at my keeping at
home the portrait of her who was my first and only love. She would
have preferred that my eyes did not recall so often to my heart the
recollection of my long-past sorrows. I withstood her. On her
death-bed she begged me to give up the picture to, those who should
have had it long ago. 'So long as I was here to comfort you in the
sorrows which the sight of it revived in you,' she said, 'I did not
press this upon you; but soon you will be left alone, with no one to
raise you when your spirits fail you. They have often begged you to
give up the picture to them. The time is come for you to grant
their prayers.'
"I promised.
"And now, dear friend, help me to keep my promise. I do not wish to
write to them. My hand would tremble, and they would tremble when
they saw my writing. Go and see them.
"They live about nine miles from Milan, on the Monza road, but
beyond that town, close to the village of Desio. The villa is
called Dannegianti, after its owners. It used to be hidden among
poplars, and its groves were famous for their shade. You must send
in your card to the old lady of the house together with mine. They
will receive you. Then you must break the news to them as you think
best, that, in accordance with the dying wish of Sylvestre Lampron's
mother, the portrait of Rafaella is to be given in perpetuity to the
Villa Dannegianti. Given, you understand.
"You may even tell them that it is on its way. I have just arranged
with Plumet about packing it. He is a good workman, as you know.
To-morrow all will be ready, and my home an absolute void.
"I intend to take refuge in hard work, and I count upon you to
alleviate to some extent the hardships of such a method of
consolation.
"SYLVESTRE LAMPRON."
When I got Lampron's letter, at ten in the morning, I went at once to see
the landlord of the Albergo dell' Agnello.
"You can get me a carriage for Desio, can't you?"
"Oh, your lordship thinks of driving to Desio? That is quite right. It
is much more picturesque than going by train. A little way beyond Monza.
Monza, sir, is one of our richest jewels; you will see there--"
"Yes," said I, repeating my Baedeker as accurately as he, "the Villa
Reale, and the Iron Crown of the Emperors of the West."
"Exactly so, sir, and the cathedral built--"
"By Theodolinda, Queen of the Lombards, A.D. 595, restored in the
sixteenth century. I know; I only asked whether you could get me a
decent carriage."
"A matchless one! At half-past three, when the heat is less intense,
your lordship will find the horses harnessed. You will have plenty of
time to get to Desio before sunset, and be back in time for supper."
At the appointed time I received notice. My host had more than kept his
word, for the horses sped through Milan at a trot which they did not
relinquish when we got into the Como road, amid the flat and fertile
country which is called the garden of Italy.
After an hour and a half, including a brief halt at Monza, the coachman
drew up his horses before the first house in Desio--an inn.
It was a very poor inn, situated at the corner of the main street and of
a road which branched off into the country. In front of it a few plane-
trees, trained into an arbor, formed an arch of shade. A few feet of
vine clambered about their trunks. The sun was scorching the leaves and
the heavy bunches of grapes which hung here and there. The shutters were
closed, and the little house seemed to have been lulled to sleep by the
heat and light of the atmosphere and the buzzing of the gnats.
"Oh, go in; they'll wake up at once," said the coachman, who had divined
my thoughts.
Then, without waiting for my answer, like a man familiar with the customs
of the country, he took his horses down the road to the stable.
I went in. A swarm of bees and drones were buzzing like a whirlwind
beneath the plane-trees; a frightened white hen ran cackling from her
nest in the dust. No one appeared. I opened the door; still nobody was
to be seen. Inside I found a passage, with rooms to right and left and a
wooden staircase at the end. The house, having been kept well closed,
was cool and fresh. As I stood on the threshold striving to accustom my
eyes to the darkness of the interior, I heard the sound of voices to my
right:
"Picturesque as you please, but the journey has been a failure! These
people are no better than savages; introductions, distinctions, and I may
say even fame, had no effect upon them!"
"Do you think they have even read your letters?" "That would be still
worse, to refuse to read letters addressed to them! No, I tell you,
there's no excuse."
"They have suffered great trouble, I hear, and that is some excuse for
them, father."
"No, my dear, there is no possible excuse for their keeping hidden
treasures of such scientific interest. I do not consider that even an
Italian nobleman, were he orphan from his cradle, and thrice a widower,
has any right to keep locked up from the investigation of scholars an
unequalled collection of Roman coins, and a very presentable show of
medallions and medals properly so-called. Are you aware that this
boorish patrician has in his possession the eight types of medal of the
gens Attilia?"
"Really?"
"I am certain of it, and he has the thirty-seven of the gens Cassia, one
hundred and eighteen to one hundred and twenty-one of the gens Cornelia,
the eleven Farsuleia, and dozens of Numitoria, Pompeia, and Scribonia,
all in perfect condition, as if fresh from the die. Besides these, he
has some large medals of the greatest rarity; the Marcus Aurelius with
his son on the reverse side, Theodora bearing the globe, and above all
the Annia Faustina with Heliogabalus on the reverse side, an incomparable
treasure, of which there is only one other example, and that an imperfect
one, in the world--a marvel which I would give a day of my life to see;
yes, my dear, a day of my life!"
Such talk as this, in French, in such an inn as this!
I felt a presentiment, and stepped softly to the right-hand door.
In the darkened room, lighted only by a few rays filtered between the
slats of the shutters, sat a young girl. Her hat was hung upon a nail
above her head; one arm rested on a wretched white wood table; her head
was bent forward in mournful resignation. On the other side of the
table, her father was leaning back in his chair against the whitewashed
wall, with folded arms, heightened color, and every sign of extreme
disgust. Both rose as I entered--Jeanne first, M. Charnot after her.
They were astonished at seeing me.
I was no less astounded than they.
We stood and stared at each other for some time, to make sure that we
were not dreaming.
M. Charnot was the first to break the silence. He did not seem
altogether pleased at my appearance, and turned to his daughter, whose
face had grown very red and yet rather chilling:
"Jeanne, put your hat on; it is time to go to the station." Then he
addressed me:
"We shall leave you the room to yourself, sir; and since the most
extraordinary coincidence"--he emphasized the words--"has brought you to
this damnable village, I hope you will enjoy your visit."
"Have you been here long, Monsieur?"
"Two hours, Monsieur, two mortal hours in this inn, fried by the sun,
bored to death, murdered piecemeal by flies, and infuriated by the want
of hospitality in this out-of-the-way hole in Lombardy."
"Yes, I noticed that the host was nowhere to be seen, and that is the
reason why I came in here; I had no idea that I should have the honor of
meeting you."
"Good God! I'm not complaining of him! He's asleep in his barn over
there. You can wake him up; he doesn't mind showing himself; he even
makes himself agreeable when he has finished his siesta."
"I only wish to ask him one question, which perhaps you could answer,
Monsieur; then I need not waken him. Could you tell me the way to the
Villa Dannegianti?"
M. Charnot walked up to me, looked me straight in the eyes, shrugged his
shoulders, and burst out laughing.
"The Villa Dannegianti!"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Then you may as well turn round and go home again."
"Why?"
"Because there's no admission."
"But I have a letter of introduction."
"I had two, Monsieur, without counting the initials after my name, which
are worth something and have opened the doors of more than one foreign
collection for me; yet they denied me admission! Think of it! The
porter of that insolent family denied me admission! Do you expect to
succeed after that?"
"I do, Monsieur."
My words seemed to him the height of presumption.
"Come, Jeanne," he said, "let us leave this gentleman to his youthful
illusions. They will soon be shattered--very soon."
He gave me an ironical smile and made for the door.
At this moment Jeanne dropped her sunshade. I picked it up for her.
"Thank you, Monsieur," she said.
Of course these words were no more than ordinarily polite. She would
have said the same to the first comer. Nothing in her attitude or her
look displayed any emotion which might put a value on this common form of
speech. But it was her voice, that music I so often dream of. Had it
spoken insults, I should have found it sweet. It inspired me with the
sudden resolution of detaining this fugitive apparition, of resting, if
possible, another hour near her to whose side an unexpected stroke of
fortune had brought me.
M. Charnot had already left the room; his rotund shadow rested on the
wall of the passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand.
"Monsieur," said I, "I am sorry that you are obliged to return already to
Milan. I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and it
would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due
only to the stupidity of the servants."
He stopped; the stroke had told.
"It is certainly quite possible that they never looked at my card or my
letters. But allow me to ask, since my card did not reach the host, what
secret you possess to enable yours to get to him?"
"No secret at all, still less any merit of my own. I am the bearer of
news of great importance to the owners of the villa, news of a purely
private nature. They will be obliged to see me. My first care, when I
had fulfilled my mission, would have been to mention your name. You
would have been able to go over the house, and inspect a collection of
medals which, I have heard, is a very fine one."
"Unique, Monsieur!"
"Unfortunately you are going away, and to-morrow I have to leave Milan
myself, for Paris."
"You have been some time in Italy, then?"
"Nearly a fortnight."
M. Charnot gave his daughter a meaning look, and suddenly became more
friendly.
"I thought you had just come. We have not been here so long," he added;
"my daughter has been a little out of sorts, and the doctor advised us to
travel for change of air. Paris is not healthful in this very hot
weather."
He looked hard at me to see whether his fib had taken me in. I replied,
with an air of the utmost conviction, "That is putting it mildly. Paris,
in July, is uninhabitable."
"That's it, Monsieur, uninhabitable; we were forced to leave it. We soon
made up our minds, and, in spite of the time of the year, we turned our
steps toward the home of the classics, to Italy, the museum of Europe.
And you really think, then, that by means of your good offices we should
have been admitted to the villa?"
"Yes, Monsieur, but owing only to the missive with which I am entrusted."
M. Charnot hesitated. He was probably thinking of the blot of ink, and
certainly of M. Mouillard's visit. But he doubtless reflected that
Jeanne knew nothing of the old lawyer's proceedings, that we were far
from Paris, that the opportunity was not to be lost; and in the end his
passion for numismatics conquered at once his resentment as a bookworm
and his scruples as a father.
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